All good.

I think I'd prefer a colonoscopy.

Just wanted to report that all went well and I seem to have no apparent assues that showed up on Colon TV during my exam. No cancer, no polyps, just a colon that "looks great" according to my gastroenterologist (and reported to me by my giggling husband).

In short:

1) The drink was bad but not that bad.

A friend advised that I channel my long-dead inner beer guzzler and down it went. (Thanks, Jarvino.) It's true that it's terrible---lemon-scented dirty fish tank terrible--- I think I just expected it to be worse.

2) The drugs were good but not that good.

They gave me the Michael Jackson death drug, Propofol, which was disconcerting when I first realized it was such, but proved effective. As I told Dan, I'll never be an alcoholic because I can't take the dehydration, but I could see going the prescription drug route. All I'm saying is that if I had MJ power and money, I might have a home doc give me a tiny nip of "mother's milk" before bed, too. When I confirmed with the anesthesiologist that it was, indeed, the MJ death drug, he said, "But this is how it's supposed to be used...and I'll stay in the room." This was intended to be comforting but given that he was hottish, I wished that he would be heading out before my colon was up on the flat-screen.

Also, unlike MJ, I woke up. I woke up, um, while it was still happening. Fortunately, things seemed to be finishing up at the time and I was still drugged enough not to scream, "BAD TOUCH!" but the perpetrator was still in the house. Funny thing is that my mom told me she had woken up during her colonoscopy and that I should let them know in no uncertain terms that I would not like that to happen to me...which I thought I did, just short of saying, "Pour me a drink like you hate your boss." (In general, redheads need more anesthesia...I swear, look it up!) Ultimately, though, I think the guy probably gave me the perfect dose because although I woke up with the vague knowledge that I was being violated (and who hasn't had that experience?), I wasn't in pain and it didn't take me long to de-drug afterwards.

I did get a little chatty though which is what I apparently do in these situations. I have a vague, unsettling memory from the last time I went under for something like this, of telling the nurse some anecdote about myself that ended with the words, "my dream threesome." So...I'm glad I didn't do that this time. (That's a true story...celebrities were named.) (Ugh.)

3) The emptying of my colon was fucking awful.

All those it's not so badders are lying! That part was terrible. I'll spare you the details but the biggest trauma of this whole event occurred in my own home. Every time I feel a rumble in my stomach now, even just from hunger, I get flashbacks. When the doc told me I'd need another colonoscopy at age 40, I said that maybe 11 years is enough time for me to forget what went down last night...maybe.

But it's done and now I know that death isn't hiding in my colon. The coffee and muffin one of the nurses gave me afterwards (you know I loved every single nurse there) were the best coffee and muffin of my life, though I'm still a little timid to resume normal eating. Maybe it's an OCD thing, but I like knowing that my colon is all Windexed and shiny clean and I'd like to keep it that way.

I'll schedule a follow-up appointment to discuss things further, but there's nothing write home about.

That was actually the hardest part of the whole thing...not calling my mom to tell her all went well. Not having her call me this morning to see if I was ready. She's the one who got me to make the appointment in the first place though, so I'm glad I followed through.

I know she'd be proud of me and my great-looking colon. (Especially since there was no talk of threesomes.)

I'm hungry! Hide your shoes!

Discreet, isn't it? (And, yes, that's my green bathrobe being rocked. I may be in it all day.)

I haven't written because I've been in a state of hunger-based confusion for three days.

After scheduling the procedure and canceling it four times, barring any unforeseen states of emergency or surprise blizzards in the next 24 hours, I will be reporting to the hospital at 9:30am tomorrow to have a colonoscopy. And, hopefully, there will be live streaming.

Or not. (Actually, as much as I'd like to give you the play-by-play, I have no intention of killing my post-op buzz by breaking out the laptop. A little video might be fun though...)

Considering how impaired I've been these past few days from trying to get a head start on the prep, I can't make any promises. It all started with my doing too much research. See, I love researching. And I have a tendency, when facing unfamiliar topics/scenarios/humans to try to familiarize myself even slightly (usually obsessively) with the subject of which I am ignorant. When I learned that research is part of the work of being a writer, I cried rainbow-colored tears of Google joy. This curiosity has mostly served me in my life but all research and no living can can make Lola a crazy girl. (Early on in my mom's illness, Dan suggested that I give myself a time limit on this front.) But I would also also argue that we often go a little too blindly through the world, particularly when led by medical professionals, and that a baseline understanding of what's going on should be acquired before agreeing to take a pill with 76,000 side effects.

Or (and especially) when having a camera snaked up your ass.

So, I Googled.

I didn't delve into the frightening land of what could go wrong (though, generally my brain cuddles and dwells under the subheading of Risks and Complications), but instead focused on getting myself, my colon (MEMOIR TITLE ALERT: My Self, My Colon) prepared. Basically, instead of opting to simply abstain from eating one day before the procedure as the literature my doc's office sent suggested I do, I decided to start avoiding fiber a few days ago and thought I'd spend the last two before the colonoscopy on a liquid diet. What I soon realized was that my regular diet consists of 99% fiber (1% coffee) so really what I was attempting to do was not eat for four days.

While excitedly pondering how this would affect the number on the scale, I forgot to note that failing to eat turns me into a grouchy, whiny child before it freezes me into a stammering, staring pile on the couch in a perpetual state of forgetting what I was going to say, before revealing a psycho who knows exactly how she would catch, skin and roast the neighbor's cat, "you know, if ever it got to that." (I get a little Black Swanny is all I'm saying.)

The good news is: I failed.

But in the stupidest way possible. My research started on Thursday so after nuts and berries for breakfast and salad for lunch (a fiber-fest if ever there was!), I committed to a no-fiber diet and handled the rest of the day pretty well. I got through Friday with eggs for breakfast, yogurt, a bit of roasted chicken (bleh), sardines (surprisingly not bleh), and then it was 8am and what the hell else was I going to eat? (Some of what I read suggested reaching for white rice and pasta but my relationships with these foods? Well, It's complicated.) So I didn't eat anything else and then, because all logical thinking is lost when I'm hungry (and thus the knowledge that burning calories would only make me hungrier was absent), I went to the gym. There I dizzily huffed through an hour on the elliptical machine, soaking in sweat and saliva while watching Ina Garten make Jeffrey (that stiff fucker) a lobster potpie. (That potpie will haunt my dreams until I have it and I don't even really like lobster.) I made it all the way to 4 o'clock when I met Dan at the movies (with the rest of our 70-year-old peers) and decided that the hot tea I had brought to replace movie munchies would be best enjoyed with a box of Milk Duds. No, Milk Duds don't have any fiber in them. But with the goal being to get a head start on the emptying of my colon, I couldn't help but feel that swallowing down little globs of half-chewed caramel was counterproductive. Having ruined the day of healthy eating with the Duds though, I naturally had to follow the movie up with dinner of Thai food. As I ate the Pad See Ew (do yourself a favah and get this some time) and threw back the sweet, wide noodles (which, as we've already discussed, complicate things no matter what...but contain no fiber!), I attempted to avoid the veggies which, of course, felt really stupid and contradictory to everything I know about nutrition.

Saturday was supposed to be all liquid so between 7:30 and 3pm all I ate were two whey protein and milk smoothies. Things start to get fuzzy after this. I tried to satisfy my hunger with a cup of homemade chicken broth that Dan (when he came out from hiding under the bed) cooked up using the carcass from a chicken I had roasted a few days ago, but I resented that it didn't taste like cupcakes and was also not nearly as filling. Still hungry as we started into a Sons of Anarchy DVD binge (a solid show), I began fantasizing about the foods I would eat if I could. As I told Dan (during the many times we had to stop and rewind the show because I wasn't paying attention or couldn't process quickly enough due to starvation-induced dimwittedness), I thought my diet before this was pretty limited in that I try to avoid gluten, cheese, and hormone-pumped or grain/corn-fed animal products, but it's all relative. I would do anything (and I was much, much more specific than this) for an apple, I told him. The fantasy meal I decided on was bruschetta with grilled, olive-oil brushed baguette rounds and sweet summer tomatoes, a Leinenhugel's Sunset Wheat beer in a cold glass with an orange wheel, and then a soft-serve vanilla ice cream on a wafer cone. This meal would destroy my stomach but will be worth it...six months from now when such a meal can be enjoyed. (I. Want. Summer.)

As day became night, I finally said to Dan, "We have to shut off the windows and I need to eat."

("Shut off the windows" is apparently hungry-speak for close the blinds.)

Two homemade meatballs smothered in tomato sauce later (low-fiber), I was stuffed.

For five minutes.

Then I was starving again.

And so I broke my liquid fast yet again with my go-to (low fiber!) treat of a few tablespoons of peanut butter sprinkled (liberally) with chocolate chips eaten in a bowl cereal-style. (This is best enjoyed with a glass of red wine which I had to indulge in because certainly when they speak of not ingesting red, orange or purple beverages, they don't mean wine.)

Today, though, I can't break. Prior to this, the effort was for extra credit in terms of colon cleanliness. Today, I have been instructed to not eat anything other than clear broths and juices. I was allowed eggs early this morning and went for it because, fuck, this is going to be hard, but the tantrums have already started. Dan just looked in on me and I was punching the couch cushions because I accidentally erased a big portion of this and didn't fucking feel like fucking rewriting this fucking shit. Then he disappeared into the bathroom.

The worst part of all of this is that I no longer think I will be a good Survivor contestant.

I don't know if we've talked about this here, but being on Survivor is a dream of mine and I am always trying to prepare myself for the obstacles I know will be posed when I am cast on the show (after I decide I can handle wearing a bathing suit on television and audition). This past December, when I locked myself out of my apartment and out of my running car on a 13-degree day, I asked myself what I would do during the cold nights on Survivor and started pulling out the Jane Fonda workout moves to keep warm. Fortunately, AAA came before it was time for pelvic lifts. But, I am now recognizing that the hunger may be too much for me. I have new insight into why all the the women on Survivor go crazy so quickly and think the only logical solution is to steal their tribemates' shoes. I'm seeing double and it's only been six hours. Add coldness to this scenario and there would be some screeching unpleasantness, which is probably why Dan didn't say anything about my turning the thermostat up a couple degrees higher than normal this morning.

And also why he's not making eye contact with me.

Wait, is he getting ready for the gym? He is! He's going to the gym! He's just gonna leave me like this? What if I hurt myself? What if I break? What if I'm too weak to heat the chicken broth? What kind of husband leaves his wife in this state?

One who knows when his wife's got the crazy in her eyes.

Fucker.

So, my intention is to update as the day goes on but I may get too dizzy to type.

I also may get too bitchy to blog. You guys don't need to see that.

Wish me luck.

Love,
Not Fucking Ghandi

Greetings from Ohio!

Love, Not a Deadbeat Blogger

Snow Buddies

It actually says “blizzard” on the weather.com report. I was supposed to go to a couple of appointments this morning. Not happening.

So Dan and I are trying not get into a shoving match while working at home together. We love the idea of this but we’re never as efficient as we think we’ll be. He wants to play with me in my moments of deepest focus (a treacherous circumstance, as he well knows) and I try to talk to him when he’s trying to quickly finish something up. This has already happened a few times this morning so I suggested that maybe we could set up a time to chat (which is ridiculous because our apartment is so small than I could count the number of bites it took him to finish his omelet because I can hear every time the fork hits the plate from where I am in the spoffice (spare bedroom/office for those who need reminding) while he eats in the kitchen.

So, I’m working on Volume 2 of Lola Vs. The Gym, but my thought is that I’m not going to get it finished and posted by the time I leave for Ohio tomorrow morning (that is if today’s mess doesn’t throw everything off at the airports). My ever-generous brother-in-law, Gary (is this his blog debut?), is flying me out to have a visit with my sister Katie and my delicious chunk of a niece since he will be gone on back-to-back flights that will have him away from home for over a week at least. (He’s a pilot...have we reviewed this?) And though I promised myself I would keep travel to a minimum (and, thus, work to a maximum), I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to have coffee with my sister and to teach the little chub-nugget dirty words. (She’s just over 18-months old...you have to start them early when they are most able to absorb a new language).

(I just turned around from my desk, sensing something was going on, and Dan was silently dancing by himself outside my office door in an effort to distract me...this is a dangerous game he’s playing, friends. A very dangerous game.)

So, I’ll probably be away from here for a few days (flying back to NH next Tuesday barring any other blizzards...though I know I just fucked myself by even writing that) and wanted you to know so you didn’t think that I had abandoned you, the blog, the gym, all of it.

(I just got a text message from Dan saying, “I need attention!” It’s not even 11 yet, folks. Oy.)

I’m posting this link because I’ve been singing this song all morning and because the last few days have been ass-kickers in regard to how much I am missing my mom. I visited my parents’ house for the first time since the wrapping paper incident and, as this is where she lived and died and where I spent most of this past year with her (not to mention my first 18 years of life), it’s very hard to be there, to say the least.

The link is to a clip from the show "So You Think You Can Dance" which airs over the summertime and was a favorite of my mom's (and dad's...and sister Cherie's...and now mine). Spending as much time in Rhode Island as I did, it ended up being a weekly show that my parents and I watched together. My mom and I even watched it on the tiny TV screen in her hospital room during one of her stays there. This particular clip aired the night she got home from the hospital after her second week-long hospitalization, armed this time with oxygen tanks for at-home use. Cherie was there too and the four of us, all exhausted from the emotions of the week, sat and watched together, my mom falling in and out of sleep. The choreographer, Travis Wall, explained prior to the performance that his own mother had recently undergone some sort of extensive surgery and that the dancers were representative of him and his mother. Sorry to have to do this to you, but I wanted to get something up before I disappear for a few days and all I have been thinking about is this video. Grab the tissues and enjoy.

P.S. Dan’s making SpongeBob Mac ‘N Cheese right now. He has won...he has won.

I See Naked People, Volume One

You might as well just inject me with MRSA now because I just joined a gym.

The papers were signed over a month ago, actually; the fees paid. But who joins a gym in the midst of the holiday season and actually goes? (Who friggin‘ joins a gym in the midst of the holiday season anyway?) So, let’s forget the fact that I signed up a month and a half ago and only went once in that time (thrice if you count the two introductory days one of the trainers took me through) and let’s say this whole gym thing just started.

I had been seriously pondering the idea for a while after doing a weeklong trial membership this summer and really digging some of the group classes, particularly Zumba. But, the summer being what it was, it didn’t make sense to join then and besides that, the whole thing is pretty costly. Because our gym is affiliated with our local hospital, it’s really well-maintained (read: not totally gross) and actually a very nice facility (read: not totally gross and also gets some natural sunlight), but you pay for it. I think it’s about $140 a month for both Dan and my memberships and this is on top of a pretty hefty sign-on fee. But, my normal walking routine is somewhat limited by the cold, I’ve grown to loathe all of the instructors on my workout videos (c-bombs have been dropped), and after my mom’s death, I knew that I needed to take measures in order to soften the blow of what, when it occurs (the risk is imminent), will someday be referred to by survivors as: The Perfect Emotional Storm. This is the culmination of three awful, life-threatening and terribly destructive circumstantial fronts. 1) Seasonal Affective Disorder 2) bottomless, unceasing grief that takes me down at the knees at least once a day and 3) the fact that I can’t watch the new Oprah channel because we still have lame, crappy, deplorable basic (like five-channel basic) cable.

We’re battening down the hatches (Dan’s hiding the booze), but the gym membership is intended to keep this dinghy afloat.

Now, a word on gyms. Ick. I have never been a gym person other than during a short period in my early twenties when I paid $10 a month for a membership at a place located a few shops down from the restaurant I was then working at. I went one time and was motivated solely by the fact that I had lost power in my apartment and I didn’t want to miss Ellen whose show I knew would be playing on one of the gym TVs. (I’m not sure about a bullet, but at that point I would at least take a treadmill for Ellen.) When I was younger, the only thing I knew about gyms was that some of my athletic friends went to our local one and all of them reported seeing, at one time or another, a few of the teachers from our high school...naked. The humiliation I would suffer if ever I encountered that scenario was enough to keep me from ever joining up. This brings me to my fundamental problems with gyms----they seem to be the shrines at which thee of extreme comfort with nakedness, worship. I cannot, I simply cannot, understand the ease with which women cross the room, stand at the mirror or engage in other casual locker room behaviors while partially or totally naked...like naaaaked. I’m practically walking into walls as I stow my coat, just trying to look down and avert my eyes from all the boobs hanging out all over the place. It’s like an episode of Scooby Doo when the lights go out and it’s totally dark except for pairs of eyes everywhere.



I don’t understand it.

I don’t understand how anyone can even handle being naked next to anyone else (other than in the obvious scenarios which necessitate nudity like with your partner or at the therapist’s office.) I don’t even understand changing clothes in front of other people which is a private-stall matter at stores, but public as a watering hole at the gym. Since when is it acceptable to engage in casual chatter while wearing only your underoos? (This is also my argument against bathing suits. It’s underwear! Bathing suits are simply bras and underwear that our culture has painted nylon, spandex and polyester and deemed acceptable for public consumption. It’s an emperor-has-no-clothes thing to me, this acceptance of bathing suits. And it’s not just women. If a speedo isn’t sexual harrasment, I don’t know what is. Burqas in the pool, I say!)

Now I know, in part, the problem is mine. You don’t need a PhD to know there are at least a couple of issues at work there. (Whatever, nakedness is a sin.) But Dan agrees with me that the gym culture of nudity is just bizarre (not that I advise validating your own neuroses with your spouse’s as common practice). That man has seen more old-man ass than a person should have to suffer in one lifetime and he’s as outraged as I am. (“Today I saw a guy holding a towel as he walked naked to the shower,” Dan reported. “Then I turned the corner and another guy was shaving at the sink, no clothes, his junk practically resting on the counter top.”)

So, besides the risk of contracting genital warts from the stationary bike, the nakedness and the mystery of gym culture that it represents, was another reason I was hesitant to join. Gym people are born gym people; you’re either in or you’re out. If you look cutesy or athletic in cropped yoga pants and Nikes, you know where you stand. Likewise, if your workout attire transforms you into a 14-year old with braces and your sneakers are the size of Ronald McDonald’s, you’re on the bench with me. Sorry, kid.

I was pondering all of this Monday as I walked in for my first gym visit of the new year. The ultimate selling point of this place is the unlimited classes offered. Not only is there Zumba (which is not a current interest; I don’t have the ease of heart to dance yet), but there are all sorts of classes for cycling, body combat, Thai Chi and a bunch of others including a variety of yoga classes in the “Mind/Body Studio.” I was headed in for “Gentle Yoga and Meditation for Beginners” and rather than anticipating my discomfort with the gym people, I was worrying about my discomfort with the crunchy yoga people.

I’ll say it before you have to: I know I’m the problem. I know my labeling of these people is akin to the exact judgement to which I wish not be subjected in these scenarios. I know I am the fireball of insecurity from which all others are trying to shield themselves with their walls of white light and breath-born energy shields. I am the darkness inside that yoga teachers warn people to release themselves from!

But at least I’m fucking honest about it. (And how much like a Spiderman villain did I sound like there? I am the love child of the Green Goblin and Kathy! MUAHAHA!) I am just stupidly uncomfortable in situations of pubic movement (speaking, and existing) and instead of just admitting that it’s due to my own self esteem issues, I blame everyone else. Is that really so wrong?

And not only am I worried and loathing you for what I fear you are thinking about me (not that you even care), but I am totally judging you! I totally fucking judge you! I go, “Wow, that woman is really strong. She can hold that position for so long. And look how close her toe is to her ear. How does a person even try that for the first time? I bet her husband is having an affair. That’s why she’s trying to get all into shape. I bet she does yoga every single day and doesn’t even feel guilt for it. I bet she had really supportive parents. I wish I could pull off cropped yoga pants.”

It is just such a childish sensibility that comes over me in these moments and I think I’m that much more aware of it because this wasn’t my sensibility as a child. Sure, I had things I was self-conscious about---that’s why god gave us padded bras---but I was not nearly as shy and antisocial as I am now and I can’t help but wonder what changed and how I can get back to feeling so unaware of what I'm feeling.

For example, a couple of years ago I went to dinner at a restaurant with a group of about eight or 10 ladies to celebrate the upcoming wedding of a friend of mine (who was already good and pregnant so for whom a par-tay would not have been suitable). There was a girl there that I hadn’t seen much of since high school who moved to my hometown in seventh grade. During the dinner she told me that her memory of her first day at school with us was that I went up to her, introduced myself, and chatted her up. I felt so proud of little 12-year-old me but was also well aware that times had changed. Were the adult equivalent of this scenario to play out now...I would watch her squirm. Not out of unfriendliness as much as fear. Who am I to introduce myself? I bet she wants to be alone and is psyched she doesn’t know anyone here. That’s probably why she came to this gym. I better not bother her. And how the fuck does a person look so good in cropped yoga pants?

You see what I’m saying don’t you? I’d like to think I would behave differently (and my inner Gigi tells me I would if tested) but it is not as instinctual as it once was and in the place of all that confidence is an insecure messiness that I’m trying to sort out by pushing myself to attend such classes or giving such things a real attempt before I count myself out. I’m here to tell you it’s not easy which is, of course, why I know I have to do it. F U COMFORT ZONE! This is all part of Operation Build Up Your Goddamned Self Esteem, Live Your Life and Get the Fuck on With It! (Is this one of the Oprah’s new shows? I wouldn’t know...)

What I’d really like is by the end of 2011 to have tried all the classes offered at this gym including, I shit you not, Aqua Zumba. (Though, as I told Dan, it is very, very hard for me to want to attend anything that takes place in something called a “warm pool.”) In fact, you wanna know what I ordered online last week and are in the mail on the way to me this very moment? D’yawannaknow? I can’t even believe I’m admitting this. Bathing suits. Two of them. IN THE MIDDLE OF FUCKING JANUARY! ‘Tis been a long, long time since I bought a bathing suit (because if there’s anything more vanquishing than trying on bathing suits, I’ve never experienced it). That’s how committed I am to shaking this fear shizzle once and for all (or even just once). That’s the kind of game-changing going down with this gym membership, I tell ya.

I thought this blog entry was going to be an account of that first yoga class---hence the hint about the sensual hip circles---but it became this other thing, which sometimes happens. I suppose that means there’s going to be a volume two? Maybe even a little running thing about this whole effort if I manage to really get it off the ground. (One trip to a yoga class does not a reform maketh.) Writing about it could give me the push to stay on track and disciplined. And, if nothing else, I know you guys will wholly empathize with me on this journey. Right? Or are there gym people amongst us? Despite what I said earlier ("I totally fucking judge you!"), you are safe here. And perhaps you can even help me out. Maybe you can answer this little nugget I've been tossing around in my head: Who...what type...what breed...of human being...participates...in Aqua Zumba.

Regardless, I’m sure I hate them.

P.S. New Year’s Resolution, cuz this whole thing is not of that variety and I thought I’d try at least one: Swear less. MUAHAHA!

Next time, I'm asking for a piece of the action.

When I downloaded this picture, it was named on the site as "lady with nurses." That stings.

Yo. I'm working on something a bit longer (and not a wicked downer) for you guys (hint: it involves "sensual hip circles") but for now I thought I'd throw you a friggin' bone. I know I have posted this picture before but I failed to report that this is now featured on the Oncology Department's homepage off the St. Anne's Hospital website. Remember the little photo shoot we had? Well, now we're cancer stars .

I have to admit that when I first saw it, it pissed me off. I felt like we were the faces of cancer treatment propaganda. I have strong feelings regarding the businesses of oncology and chemotherapy as a result of all of this...even stronger than I had going into it. All my mom ever got was sicker at that hospital and while I recognize that this would have likely been the case regardless of any intervention (though I'm not convinced the chemo didn't speed things up), I’m hardly a proponent. However, almost every single nurse we encountered at that hospital---all the women in this photo as well as so many not pictured---were wonderful people who provided good humor and comfort and made what could have been a purely awful experience, enjoyable in a way. (This also speaks to who my mom was, of course.) Those nurses (and certainly some of the doctors) made my mom feel safe and except towards the end, her hospital stays were in many ways lovely because of them. The moment captured here was a good one (she was being discharged after a week in) so, instead of feeling angry, I’m just trying to focus on the good memory of that day and the people. It’s always about the people, isn’t it?

It does have me looking at brochures and hospital testimonials differently now though, I have to say. It makes me wonder how many of the people in all of the ads promising the best care and latest innovation are, well dead.

I’ll leave you with that mood-lifter for the day, how ‘bout?

Coming soon: Something that won’t make you want to drink yourself to sleep.